


One More Time (With Feeling)

by CiderSky



Series: The Once More (With Feeling) Arc [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst is fun, Bring on the feels, Clint might be an Omega, Empath!Clint, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Mutant Hate, Mutant!Clint, Phil is an awesome mentor, Secrets, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, The Avengers Love Eachother, prequel to a fix-it, self hate, the X-Men show up, totally spoiled it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiderSky/pseuds/CiderSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gift. </p><p>That was what Phil had always called it; it’s what Phil said every time he had a particularly bad day, the kind of day, like today, where his brain was doing the best to murder him and in the most confusing way possible.</p><p>Phil had been the only one to have ever called it a gift and for a long time Clint had believed him. But now, with him gone, it was back to being what it truly was, what it always had been. </p><p>A fucking curse.</p><p>or,</p><p>Clint is a mutant. The others don't know. Until they do. It doesn't go so great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Gets Worse (Before It Gets Better)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to an Avengers Kink Meme prompt: Clint is secretly a mutant (and doesn't want to be); But his aim isn't his power. That's just talent and hard work. He hides/doesn't use his power because it's why his family abused him + he's flying under the radar of mutant registration acts and whatever. Basically, he's internalized all the stigma of the mutant hating world, and sees being a mutant as something shameful that will just make him a target, and would ruin the public's general good opinion of the Avengers.
> 
> Also, I have taken some serious liberties with Clint's past. I have created a somewhat different version of his parent's death; it's not a huge part of the story but I hope it doesn't upset/offend/distract anyone. I am sorry if it does, I mean no harm! It just fit in a nice angsty way!
> 
> Also, the large chunks in italics are flashbacks!
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Clint. One of these days you’re going to have to let someone in –“_

_“I have.” Clint grunted as he squeezed his eyes shut, riding out a wave of anger spilling out from a room several floors away. “You –“_

_“Someone other than me. I won’t be around forever.” Phil Coulson’s voice was perfectly serious and Clint didn’t need to look at him to know the other man was fixing him with a painfully intense and honest stare. No, he could **feel** that perfectly fine._

_“Drama queen.” Clint huffed as Coulson stood beside him, helping him ride out the worst of it, radiating nothing but calm._

Clint stared at his own tired reflection, taking in the almost sick pallor and the dark smudges underneath his eyes and wondered how he was going to make it through another day.

It was getting worse, possibly worse than it had ever been and he could feel his control slipping from his already faltering grasp.

He reached a hand up to coax the building headache away, the one that seemed to be there every morning upon waking, pulling him from blue tinted dreams.

_“I’m serious, Barton.” Coulson’s tone shifted towards stern and Clint could feel the smallest brush of frustration; it wasn’t Phil’s fault. Sometimes, no matter what someone did to mask their emotions, they got through. “We need to find someone who can help you get this under control –“_

_“I’m fine.” Concern pockmarked his pathetic shields; it was Natasha. Her emotions were always so sharp and pure. She had to be haunting the hallways and Clint felt a stab of guilt – his own guilt, thank you very much – over the many lies he’s told her._

_This time it was a migraine._

_“Phil. Just. Please.” Clint felt dizzy and wasn’t exactly up for a lecture. He knew he needed help. It was painfully obvious, but he couldn’t see a situation in which SHIELD didn’t find out, in which Natasha didn’t find out._

_She’d never forgive him. Everything they had was built on trust; what would she say, what would she do when she realized that the foundation itself had been a lie?_

_“Okay.” Phil said, pressing the matter no further, but Clint could be the cool calm increasing, washing over him again._

Clint filled the sink with ice-cold water, doing his best to ignore the way his skin was _crawling_ and splashed the liquid into his face.

It’s what Phil would have done; they had had a way of dealing with it and it had always started with cold water against his face and on the back of his neck.

Clint dipped a rag into the pool of water and, after ringing it out, slapped it on the back of his neck, taking in deep, calming breaths.

_“Breathe. Just breathe, Clint.” Phil said as he placed a hand onto the archer’s back, working soothing circles over strained muscles._

_Clint did as he was told, taking in the soothing scent of Eucalyptus scented water. Little by little the chaos retreated, pulling away from his mind as battered mental shields rose again._

The water didn’t smell like Eucalyptus this time and maybe that was why it wasn’t working. Phil had always been the one to add the oil to the water and Clint had never seen where it had come from or where he put it when they were done.

Clint took another deep breath, this one ragged and impatient, as he waited for it to begin its retreat.

It didn’t come.

Clint slammed a fist down against the sink, ignoring the way the pipes creaked in protest, and couldn’t help the near growl of frustration that escaped his lips as the headache kicked back, increasing in intensity with every heartbeat.

_Clint’s breathing evened out and all that was left was a small prickling against the back of his mind; nothing but the slightest reminder of what he was. What he is._

_“Better?” Phil questioned, his breath hot on the side of Clint’s neck._

_Clint nodded, exhausted. These bouts always left him feeling drained and useless; if it weren’t for Phil SHIELD would have cut him loose a long time ago. How could he ever trust anyone but him with his dirty little secret?_

_“Good. Come on.” Phil tugged him gently away from the sink and Clint followed, reveling in the fact that he’d regained his headspace, that everything he was feeling was his. Mostly. “Let’s lay down for a bit._

It wasn’t getting better.

“Fuck.” Clint hissed under his breath as he gripped the edges of the sink with an iron grip. Clint caught his reflection again and his skin gleamed with an unhealthy cold sweat.

This was how it ended, Clint realized. They’d find out, _SHIELD_ would find out and after that the Avengers. They would realize just how goddamn unstable he was and that would be fucking it.

They’d do the necessary tests, run the blood work and without Phil there to make the ‘necessary corrections and/or omissions’, he’d not only be suspended for falsifying medical documentation, he’d be considered a liability.

Loss of his affiliation with SHIELD and the Avengers Initiative was sure to follow.

In his mind there was only one last thread connecting him to the world he lived in now.

Natasha.

Right now she was a couple hundred miles away and he was almost positive this mission of hers – only a couple weeks, she had told him – was sure to be the final nail in his coffin.

A couple of weeks …

He wanted to tell Natasha and he would have much earlier in their relationship had he had a better idea of what her reaction might be. The longer he waited the worse it would get, he told himself.

He needed to tell her, he _needed_ her help but how could she trust him after he’d spent nearly fifteen years lying to her? He and Coulson were the only people she had ever trusted – even Fury was still on the fence.

It hadn’t just been a lie about his past, about what he had done before, about the blood that covered his hands. She knew all that. _All_ of it.

This was a matter of lying about who he _is_.

That, in Clint’s opinion, was far graver a betrayal.

If – when – he lost Natasha, it would truly be over.  After that he’d be nothing. He would have nothing.

“Fuck. Goddamnit!” Clint growled and before he could stop himself his fist was colliding with the mirror, shattering the thing into knife-like shards, cutting his knuckles to ribbons.

Clint stared at the blood streaming down into the sink and than back up at the remaining shards, stubbornly stuck to the mirror’s backboard and hell, he can’t help but hate everything he sees.

He’s been told, more than once, that he had just been born unlucky, that the stars hadn’t been aligned correctly or Mercury had been in retrograde, or some crap like that.

Whether it was true or not, Clint couldn’t really say; he never put much stock in astrology or horoscopes. He did, however, believe wholeheartedly in genetics and if he were to point the finger it would be right at the old gene pool.

And his gene pool was royally _screwing_ him on a daily basis.

It was only a matter of time.

Phil had been the last thing standing between him and what Clint could only assume was death caused by the slow pull of insanity.

_“I – I think I’m losing it, Phil. I can’t do this.” Clint said when it got really bad, hen he couldn’t stop feeling so angry for reasons unknown to him, or when he was riding high on the lies of someone else’s happiness, only to come crashing down back to himself. He didn’t even know who he was anymore, what he felt for anything or anyone._

_Was he human at all?_

_“You can. You will.” When it got this bad Clint could swear he felt warm, encompassing waves of what he thought might be love, but that was absolutely ridiculous; he knew it was coming from someone else, someone far away who didn’t even know him, someone who certainly didn’t love him._

_“Look at me, Clint. You are strong and you will survive because you know no other way. **We** can do this.”_

Clint took in a shuddering breath as he wiped the back of his hand across hi sweat-soaked forehead; he could feel the warmth of his own blood smearing across his face but he didn’t care.

Positive emotions were the worst; everyday he lived under the promise of love and excitement and happiness and by the end of the day it was gone, stolen away from him by their respective owners.

That is what would drive him insane, more than the grief and anger and fear …

And really, he wouldn’t be the first mutant driven into insanity by whatever ‘gift’ the X-Gene had bestowed upon him, had _cursed_ him with.

_“It’s not a curse unless you allow it to be, Clint.” Phil said softly; the room painted in warm compassion._

A gift.

That was what Phil had always called it; it’s what Phil said every time he had a particularly bad day, the kind of day, like today, where his brain is doing the best to murder him and in the most confusing way possible.

Phil had been the only one to have ever called it a gift and for a long time Clint had believed him. But now, with him gone, it was back to being what it truly was, what it always had been.

A fucking curse.

A shrill chirp stole his attention and he realized after a moment that his phone was ringing.

Clint grabbed a bunched up piece of cloth, a T-shirt, and wrapped it around his knuckles as he crossed the room to retrieve the phone that was threatening to vibrate itself of the bedside table.

“Barton.” He said with forced ennui; it was only half convincing, judging by the pause on the other end of the line.

“Briefing Room, twenty minutes. Wheels up at 1100.” Fury’s tone was of the ‘absolutely-no-bullshit’ variety and Clint was glad for it.

He never had to worry about the Director; he was made up of a predictable blend of emotions that never bordered on any extreme: frustration, focus, shades of anger, some creepy bastardization of calm and pride.

Only the last had been surprising.

“Copy that.”  Clint suited up and gathered his weapons and hoped for a mission far, far away, somewhere where empathy couldn’t touch him.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

The mission in Yambol and it should have been perfect.

For six days Clint sat in his sniper’s perch, watching the target through his scope, wondering why it wasn’t going away.

When the time came he took the shot; it was perfect and clean and is followed by chaos as the target’s men tries to find him.

They wouldn’t, but he ran regardless, trying to ignore the anger and fear and confusion rolling towards him like a tide.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Clint had hoped to find Natasha waiting for him upon his return but as soon as he set foot in Stark Tower he knew she wasn’t there.

This was the other (less terrible) part of his so-called gift.

It was of the more passive variety, existing within him, unable to be manipulated or _used_ as was the case with his empathy.

Phil had been the one to explain this to him; upon finding out about his ‘condition’ Coulson had managed to read through every scientific publication by Dr. Moira MacTaggert and had blazed through Dr. Hank McCoys eight-hundred paged thesis concerning genetic mutation and the growing prevalence of the ‘x-gene.’

_“The more we know about your mutation,” Clint cringed. He **hated** that word, more than anything else he’s ever been called, and Phil knew that. He was trying to get the archer used to the idea that ‘mutant’ wasn’t the same as ‘freak’ or ‘outcast’, “the better we can deal with it.”_

_“Knowledge is power?” Clint asked, flipping through McCoy’s Bible-sized thesis but not really taking anything in. Genetics had never been his strong suit and each sentence was littered with words so foreign to him they gave him a headache._

_“Exactly.”_

Coulson had explained each part of McCoy’s and MacTaggert’s work to him in depth; most of it was a painful account concerning the progression of evolution and the diversity in which the ‘x-gene’ presented itself but when Coulson started talking primary and secondary mutations Clint found himself paying close attention.

Clint couldn’t even be sure whether he would have recognized his ‘secondary’ ability for what it was had Phil not shared the information with him.

Until that moment he had just thought that he was extremely spatially adept.

Though it was separate from his empathy, it operated in a similar fashion.

He knew where the others were – Tony, Steve, Bruce, Thor, Pepper – because he could feel them.

_“Emotional GPS.” Coulson grinned as he picked through MacTaggerts paper entitled ‘ the expression of the x-gene in subjects wth kinesthesia and special awareness.’_

_It was a ridiculous thing to say but for the first time in perhaps ever Clint could laugh about it._

Tony and Bruce were twelve floors below in the R&D lab. There was a touch of giddiness there, _excitement_ even, and it wasn’t hard to surmise that it was mostly coming from Tony. The man almost always carried some form of excitability with him; on his best days it was so intense it was frighteningly contagious. Clint had once been reduced to giggles by proxy and that had earned him more than a few strange looks.

Excitement wasn’t the only thing surrounding the two; if anything it was the lesser emotion.

Clint could feel their focus, their intensity, sure, but there was also the sticky, self-resentment, the _pain_ they both tried to hide on a daily basis.

Anger, however, was the strongest emotion. It was as though Bruce was anger-incarnate and it was at constant odds with the genuine, wonderful kindness within him.

Pepper, light and airy and so calm she could be a female Phil, was a few floors down; she was the perfect picture of focus. She exuded confidence and she was undoubtedly comfortable in her own skin.

Clint liked her. She, like Natasha, like Phil, was easy to understand; there were no undercurrents or confusing fluctuations in her emotional state. She was steady and straightforward and, like Banner, so naturally kind.

If he ever found a way to separate everyone, to pull apart the chaotic colors of their emotion, so mushed together that it was almost _black,_ he would spend more time with the woman, but until then, not even her confidence could combat Bruce’s anger of Tony’s self-hate.

Steve, like Pepper, was full of good and positive things, but like Tony and Bruce and everyone else in the world, there was something toxic he held close to his heart.

Steve was down in the gym, uncertainty and trepidation spilling off him, further confirmation that the man was trying to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Thor was perhaps the loudest of them all; he talked the loudest, walked – stomped – the loudest and felt the loudest.

Where Fury was a man who didn’t edge on extremes, Thor was a man who avoided the in between at all costs. Currently, he was feeling some very extreme amusement in what Clint guessed was the theatre.

He knew he should probably check in with someone, let them know he was back safe and not dead but that wonderful adrenaline was wearing off and those stupid shields, the ones Phil informed him all those with ‘psychic’ mutations had, were cracking again.

So, he decided to do what Phil always told him not to do.

_“Don’t shut yourself away, Clint. Don’t hide from those who want to help you.” Phil said, voice low and there it was again. Affectionate. Caring. Loving._

Clint took the stairs to his floor, not wanting to risk running into anyone, and quietly made his way into the bedroom.

He locked the door behind him.

""""""""""""""""""""""""

“I really don’t think he needs or _wants_ that, Tony.” Bruce said from the workbench, his hands working delicately over impossible tiny screws with an impossibly tiny screwdriver – he was fairly certain Tony was messing with him because he knew the man had at least twelve robots that could do this job, but he decided to humor him.

A humored, distracted Tony was a less likely to cause trouble Tony.

“It’s not a matter of need or want, it’s a matter of responsibility.” Bruce quirked an eyebrow as Tony filled the arrow tip with what looked like glitter on steroids. “It is my responsibility to share this creation with the world. A terrible burden, I assure you. But I will endure and Barton will benefit from my sacrifice.”

Bruce couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

He didn’t know Barton all that well but he was fairly certain the archer wouldn’t find much use for arrows that spontaneously shot fireworks and glitter as they flew. He wasn’t even sure why Tony had thought of it in the first place.

He should probably ask.

“Tony, why –“ Before he could get an answer to the burning question, JARVIS’s soft lilt filled the lab.

“Sir, excuse my intrusion, but Agent Barton has returned.”

“Splendid. Have him meet me at the archery range, let him know I have some toys for him to try out.” Tony could hardly keep his devious expression in check as he gathered an armful of arrows, all of which did an array of utterly useless things.

“Of course, sir.”

There was a small pause, presumably because JARVIS and Clint were speaking, and then the AI is back, his tone regretful.

“I am sorry, sir, but Agent Barton has politely declined.” Tony seemed genuinely surprised, his lips tilting into a frown.

“What? Why –“

“He just got back from his mission, Tony. He’s probably tired –“ Bruce offered as he let loose a small curse as he stripped a screw.

Tony ignored the voice of reason and grabbed his phone.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

His phone buzzed and Clint lifted the arm cast over his face with no small amount of caution. As he suspected it was a text message from Stark.

**Rude.**

The adrenaline has faded and his headache is back and this is the _last_ thing he wanted to deal with. Exhausted, Clint let the phone rest on his stomach as he closed his eyes again, trying to sleep and escape the tingling under his skin.

His phone buzzed again.

**Very rude. Is that anyway to treat the genitals developing the arrows that will change everything you know about archery.**

Clint stared at the text and it would have been funny if his skin hadn’t been fucking crawling.

**Fuck autocorrect. Genius***

Clint could _feel_ Tony’s exasperation from here and it was only making things worse, stacking on top of his fatigue and Thor’s melancholy – the movie must have been a real downer – and Bruce’s weird version of anger.

**If you don’t come down here within fifteen minutes I’m coming up there. I’ll bring Dum-E. He’s particularly malfuctiony today.**

Clint groaned and rolled out of bed.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Tony wasn’t quite prepared for the sight that greeted when he turned around to the sound of the Agent’s voice.

He looked like absolute shit and that was putting it nicely. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks; the dark bruises under his eyes standing out in stark contrast against his pale skin. The lighting probably wasn’t helping but this looked to be beyond a little fatigue.

Tony glanced over at Bruce and he could tell by the man’s expression that he shared his sentiments.

“Bruce.” Clint nodded in the man’s direction, his voice rough and _sure_ , he’d just come back from a weeklong SHIELD field trip or whatever but really, it shouldn’t have worn on a seasoned agent like himself. Right?

“Now what was so import –“ Clint didn’t get the chance to finish because it seemed to Tony that he was just going to ignore the fact that he had come down here looking like the walking dead.

“Um, before we talk about that, what the hell happened?” Clint didn’t look particularly put off by the question, if anything he looked, well, it was hard to say, Clint’s resting face is extremely deceiving.

“What?” Clint asked in a deadpan, his voice still a little too … contained.

From what Tony had read in the man’s dossier – it made for rather lovely reading material – Clint had always been mouthy, had bordered on insubordination and was a quick with words as he was with that bow.

Tony couldn’t help but think one of two things. A, SHIELD’s analysis of the man’s personality was tragically inaccurate or, B, something had changed and seeing as Tony had only truly met the man _after_ the attack on New York, he’d bet a whole lot more than 15% of his company that that particular event had been the catalyst.

“What do you mean ‘what’? You look like shit. Bruce. Confirm.” Tony looked to the scientist for help and it was testament to how terrible the other man looked that Bruce actually backed him up.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Bruce asked in soft tones. He would always have more tact than Tony.

“I’m fine.” Clint looked about everything but fine but it wasn’t so much just the fading bruises on his jaw or the sunken, tired appearance.

In the short time Tony has known the man he’s never seen him fidget so damn much. Now, it wasn’t easy to spot; he wasn’t ringing his hands or shifting his weight or any of those obvious tells.

It was a slight twitch in his right brow, the way his muscles bunched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

Tony quirked his head as he took in the small beads of sweat collecting at the man’s temples; it was hardly noticeable but Tony was no stranger to what was going on in front of him.

He’s uncomfortable.

He’s hiding something.

_Interesting._

“Tony, if he says he’s fine –“ Bruce must sense something as well because it sounded so terribly placating.

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means.” Tony supplied as he rounded his workbench to face Clint more directly, those ridiculous arrows long forgotten.

“I’m fine, Stark.” Clint grit out as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, taking the slightest step backwards.

“Is Fury treating you right –“ Tony poked.

“Stark.” Was it just Tony or did the archer’s voice waver ever so slightly?

“ – or maybe the Widow’s absence is weighing on your romantic soul –“ Tony prodded.

Tony wasn’t an idiot or completely socially inept; he knew he should back off, that this was a somewhat … aggressive attempt to get the truth out of the man but Tony really didn’t know another way.

And it wasn’t like he was asking that much. If they couldn’t have a bro-chat once in a while Tony really couldn’t see how this was going to work.

The man was living in his freaking tower and yet not a single one of them knew anything about him, save for Natasha and they knew even less about her.

Tony wanted to get to know the apparent ass-hat SHIELD’s Agent database raved about. He’d been trying, really. There was the archery range on the floor below Clint’s, the catwalks that were completely unnecessary, unlimited access to their hideously large stockpile of pop tarts, and here he is extending the olive-arrow-branch of peace and goodwill and all that other junk and the man is acting like an absolute jerk.

Clint had been brooding long enough and based on the man’s appearance he couldn’t take much more of it … whatever _it_ was.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Clint had once taken a bullet to his right scapula in an ambush in Mogadishu; the intel had been shit and after a twenty minute firefight he’d been the last one standing. Despite his near shattered shoulder blade and the terrible pull of blood loss he had managed to cross the border, hike twenty miles and remain lucid enough to make some ridiculous remark as he collapsed into the safety of Phil’s arms.

That had been hell.

This was worse.

Though the lab was large, Clint felt like he was suffocating.

Tony was talking – always talking – and Clint was doing his best to hold it together. He could hear what the man was saying but it was making less and less sense as he went. It wasn’t Tony’s fault.  He was still speaking English and saying things Clint knew, subconsciously, to be completely valid, albeit annoying.

It was just that his ears were sort of ringing and the pounding in his head was making everything sound waterlogged; it also didn’t help that Tony’s rising excitement, sprinkled with small jabs of frustration, was clashing so incredibly with Bruce’s ever present anger and that smattering of disapproval.

It was directed at Tony but it didn’t quite _feel_ that way.

He knew better than to take Bruce’s disapproval and project it onto himself; logically he knew it wasn’t for him, wasn’t directed _at_ him but it didn’t matter.

All that progress he had made - or _thought_ he had made, _maybe_ he had been tricking himself all along – was crumbling down an unending slope.

 _“We’re making progress.” Phil’s voice was soft and proud as Clint blinked up at him, coming out of the meditative state Phil had helped him into, the one that had sounded so stupid_ _initially._

_“Yeah?” It was all he could really manage because there were no words for how he was feeling; it was almost as though he were a normal person. Is this what it was like to have your headspace to yourself?_

_“Yeah.” He decided after giving it a moment to settle._

_“How do you feel?” Phil asked tenderly as he handed Clint a bottle of water, watching patiently as he downed the entire thing. The archer exhaled, a sound so bordering contentment Phil was almost at a loss for words, and fixed his handler with a serious gaze._

_“In control. Like –“ Clint shook his head, unsure of how to express it in a way that did it justice, “- like this is how I was meant to be. It feels natural. Normal. I feel normal.”_

_Normal. Phil didn’t believe in the concept but he knew his Agent did and if the man didn’t look so damn content he would’ve lectured him on the ridiculousness of the word ‘normal.’_

_Phil’s expression slipped only for a moment, a frown gracing his features for a mere second as he watched the life and energy return to Clint’s eyes. He looked refreshed, more comfortable, but it only made everything so much more difficult._

_Coulson couldn’t know know how long this would last but he was determined to help Clint to find a way to find balance._

_“It’s so … quiet.” Clint remarked, his voice tinged with an incredible amount of wonderment and, in a way, it was childlike in its sincerity._

_“Progress.” Phil said again, this time with a wide smile._

_“Yeah. Progress.” Clint chuckled still in a state of disbelief. The archer stared down at his own hands for a moment, clearly basking in the peace his mind had found, and Phil watched as the smile faded and turned into something more serious._

_“Phil.” The look on Clint’s face was enough to make his damn heart ache._

_“Thank you.”_

All that progress was being washed away with each stab of emotion.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Bruce was about to say something to halt this conversation turned near-interrogation when something caught his eye.

It had been in a moment of extreme frustration and disapproval when Tony’s name had begun to form on his lips when Clint flinched.

A God-honest flinch.

Bruce had never seen the man do _that_ before.

Apparently, neither had Tony because the man’s blathering stopped almost instantly.

No one was really sure what happened next.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""

Clint Barton would never forget the day his mutation had manifested.

_He didn’t feel good._

_His head hurt and he felt nervous for no reason and no matter how much he told his parents he didn’t want to go to Michigan for a long weekend, that the car ride would only make him sick and he didn’t like Michigan anyway, they still made him._

_They handed him a juice box and a carton of animal crackers and told him to try to sleep but how could he? Didn’t they know his skin was prickling? Didn’t they know his head felt fuzzy and weird and that it hurt so much it was making his eyes water?_

_As they pulled onto I-20 he told them he thought he was going to be sick._

_Mom and Dad handed him an empty plastic bag and Barney punched him in the arm and told him to suck it up. Barney liked Michigan._

_Another twenty minutes passed but he still felt dizzy; he told them so and Barney complained about how he ruined **everything.**_

_“Here, honey, maybe we should pull over.” His mom said as she unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned into the backseat, reaching to put the back of her hand against his forehead._

_As soon as his mother’s hand touched his forehead his head split in two._

_“He’s fine. Isn’t that right, Clint?”_

_Clint was too busy dealing with the rush of aggravation and concern and disappointment to answer. Tears previously unshed spilled down his cheeks as he felt his mother’s panic._

_His chest tightened and he felt like he was dying._

_“Mom, what’s wrong –“_

_“Harold, pull over!”_

_He could feel the car shifting to the right as he tried to regain his breath and did what felt natural. He **pushed** back._

_“What –“ The atmosphere grew cold and he opened his eyes just in time to see his mother grow pale, her expression nothing but fearful, and his father throw a hand up to his forehead._

_A moment later they merged into a semi truck bound for Chicago, the entire front cabin of their car rolling easily under its wheels._

Clint had told Phil about it but he’d never experience anything like it again, had never … _pushed_ emotions like that, had never forced anyone to feel panic or fear or _pain._

Psionic Inundation, Phil called it, reciting McCoy’s publishing.

Incredibly rare and potentially disastrous, a manifestation that, in it’s highest form, could kill.

“Clint –“ It was Bruce, the rational part of his mind supplied, but he couldn’t respond because what he was feeling now felt _a lot_ like what had been feeling that terrible fucking day when he was six.

He could feel himself stumbling backwards in an almost desperate attempt to get away as he threw a hand up to his head. Something warm and thick was dripping from his nose now and he could tell by the way the back of his throat tasted like blood that he had just suffered a rather spontaneous nosebleed.

“Jesus, Clint –“ A hand wrapped itself around his wrist and all hell broke loose.

Pain. Anger. The resentment and **fear** and hatred desperation and **denial** and discomfortrageexhaustionterror- **they’regoingtofindout** ,they’regoingtofindout-loneliness- **Phil** -painangerpainpain …

_“I … I’m afraid it will happen again.” Clint wasn’t one to admit his fears. He had gone through most of this life wearing a brave face, pushing everyone and anyone away under the guise of stoicism and resentment and he’d done a damn good job surviving with what he had been dealt._

_In a way it had been easier when he had been on his own, working as a hired gun for the military, the CIA, you name it. He didn’t need to worry or care about anyone then, only himself._

_But now he had Phil and fuck, what if he hurt him? What if he killed him?_

_“Hey.” Phil broke him away from the terrible, toxic thoughts, a hand moving to cup his cheek. Clint couldn’t fight the urge to lean into it as his throat tightened._

_He was so damn tired of fighting, of being alone._

_“It won’t. Not while I’m around.”_

A cold chill ran through the entirety of Stark tower and what followed brought its every occupant to their knees.

_“Not while I’m around.”_

Phil is gone.

Clint loses control.

 

 


	2. Heel on the Shovel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is stressed. Bruce explains. Steve is learning. Pepper is amazing. Clint ... Clint is pretty sure he is fucked.
> 
> Oh, and Happy just wants to know what the hell is going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I apologize for the incredibly long, ridiculous wait for this chapter. I don't have a great excuse: life. So. Yeah.
> 
> Anyway. Thank you to every single one of you who took the time to review, bookmarked, kudos'd and just read. I appreciate your readership and your reviews – you are all amazing.
> 
> I will be responding to you all soon - I appreciate every comment you have left. Thank you!

It was not everyday that another, distant mutant mind touched upon that of Charles Xavier’s.

It was not completely unheard of, of course not, but it was surprising enough in its rarity that he paused mid-sentence and closed his eyes and tried to _listen._

The mutant’s presence is brief; merely brushing across his own psyche before disappearing behind what Charles suspects is either a relatively strong mental shield or unconsciousness.

It was brief, yes, but it was by no means weak. It left a long, aching tear in its wake and the older mutant could feel one hundred emotions at once, held at bay only by his formidable psychic shields.

There was so much fear and oh, how tired he was of fear. Every mutant he encountered was ripe with it, was built from it’s foundations, their terror burying beautiful gifts and the seeds of strength. 

He reached out for the mutant – a tendril of calm stretching out like a light – but found nothing. Unconscious then. His lips turned down in a frown. 

“Charles? Did I lose you?” The voice broke through his gentle search for the mutant.

“No, no, excuse me Moira.” He said, looking up at the woman on the view screen as he steepled his fingers in thought. “It would seem there is a mutant in need of our assistance.”

Charles could see her interest spike, her brows hitching upwards as a million questions form effortlessly from her brilliance.

“A manifestation?” She asked, hopeful. A large part of what she did was cataloguing manifestations, applying it to current algorithms and case studies in order to build models of prevalence and predictability.

“Possibly.” Charles stated with no particular certainty. It was likely, given the strength of the mutant’s psychic outpouring, that the mutant was young, perhaps experiencing his or her powers for the first time.

However, Charles has had plenty of experience with mutants in their adulthood who’s powers have evolved a secondary ability or, in the worst case scenario, have exhibited a sudden traumatic loss of control. 

Until he was able to make a connection with the mutant, he couldn’t truly know. Their contact had been far too brief to ascertain anything outside of the primary mutation – empathy, Charles was more than certain – and the mental state at the time of the incident. He couldn’t even tell whether the mutant was female or male, not that it mattered.

“Well, rain check, then?” She smiled, her eyes softening and Charles offered the same, thankful for Moira’s effortless understanding.

“Yes. I will contact you soon, Moira. Wish us luck.” She did and they bid each other farewell as the screen went blank.

He reached out once more and, finding nothing, pushed his wheelchair back away from his desk, optimistic that with the aid of Cerebro he would have the mutant under his protective custody – given he or she needed and wanted it – by nightfall.

* * *

When he woke, it was to an incredible, all consuming emptiness.

 It left him feeling numb, his brain so fuzzy he couldn’t be sure if the pain in his head was actually pain in his head or the _idea_ of pain in general. He was coming to awareness too slowly – his fingertips tingling with their inability to respond to his commands and his limbs felt so filled with lead they might as well not even be there.

As an additional bonus he could taste blood in the back of his throat, but when he tried to drag his tongue across his teeth, checking for holes in his bite, he couldn’t even muster the strength to do that.

Something was very wrong.

His sluggish, strangely numb mind tried to run through all the possibilities, as he was trained to do, but he might as well have been trying to work it out in Sumerian. He felt dumb and slow, unable to get his mind through grounding procedure. 

**SH – SHIELD Agent Clint Barton. Designation …**

His head ached as he tried to pull forth the words he knew were supposed to help him.

**SHIELD Agent Clint Barton. Designation … Hawkeye** _._ The words felt empty and meaningless and only made his body ache. It was as if something was working against him, trying to keep him from the plane of conscious thought.

He tried to take a deep breath but his lungs wouldn’t fall out of their sleep-like rhythm. Something threatened to drag him back under into unconsciousness. He was so damn tired. Clint lay there, unable to even twitch as he came to the slow realization that he had been drugged. 

This realization was sufficient enough to send his body into small override, his senses awakening.

**SHIELD Agent. Clint Barton. Designation Hawkeye. Victor-Seven-**

**Victor-Seven-**

He pushed with everything he had, all but ordering his body to work in order to escape this sedated confusion.

Finally something bent and broke _._

Suddenly, the words, different words came easy.

_“SHIELD Agent Clint Barton. Designation Hawkeye. Irr- Irreplaceable. Phil, I can’t. This is ridiculous.”_

_“Are you doubting my methods, Agent?” Phil said, his tone semi-serious as he looked up from one of the many works of Hank McCoy._

_“I just don’t see what’s wrong with my current RGS.” Recall Grounding Sequence, unique to each Agent and known only to them, their handler and the Director._

_“It’s best to keep these things separate. What works for one situation may not for another. Two different beasts.” Phil explained for the hundredth time._

_“Yes, **sir.”**_

_Clint huffed, moving his neck side to side as he worked over the walls of his psychic shields. He didn’t know where Phil came up with these exercises, practiced in the privacy of his office, but he couldn’t argue with their current success rate._

_“SHIELD Agent Clint Barton. Designation Hawkeye. Irreplaceable. Master Marksmen. . Skilled tactician. Partner of Natasha Romanov. –"_

_Clint hadn’t chosen all of those designations. Some were Phil’s, most notably the ones he would never say of himself._

_“Native Iowan.” That one he had chosen. It had been a comfortable truth and had made Phil roll his eyes._

_The next bit was all Phil._

_Clint glanced at his handler, his eyes pleading, but Phil waved him on. For the fifth time he sighed like an exasperated teenager._

_“ - Mutant. - ” He paused. When he looked up Phil was there, smiling up at him and Clint could feel a light brush of pride weed it’s way through his psyche._

_“ – Hero.” He finished._

_He had wanted to say Assassin. Phil hadn’t approved it._

_He had to admit, it sounded a lot nicer than his ten sentence SHIELD RGS; it was, after all, meant to serve as a grounding method during interrogation and to bring an Agent to attention during moments of traumatic compromise. It wasn’t supposed to be ‘nice’._

_“Good. Now if you’re done acting like we’re pulling teeth –“ Phil grinned and Clint fought the urge to stick out his tongue._

_Phil gestured to the empty chair across from him and handed him the material he had been reading, launching into a lecture concerning the importance of familiarity and consistency in regards to the maintenance of formidable psychic shields, how SHIELD had the whole RGS brain hack thing figured out and yadda yadda –_

_At some point Clint stopped listening and began to turn over the words Phil had helped chose for him in his head._

“ _SHIELD Agent Clint Barton. Designation Hawkeye. Irreplaceable. Master Marksmen. . Skilled tactician. Partner of Natasha Romanov. Native Iowan. Mutant. Hero.”_

The fog lifted from his mind and he remembered everything.

It had happened again. The thing he had sworn to himself would never happen again did and Tony and Bruce had been right _there._ He could have killed them – hell maybe he had.

No. No that was unacceptable. It was merely speculation until proven. He had not killed _anyone._ It wasn’t like last time. It wasn’t.

His body, though still slow to respond, jerked as a thrill of panic and fear coursed through him. Finally, his eyelids cooperated and shot open, his lungs following suit and allowing him a deep dragging breath that turned into a cough, the taste of intravenous sedative on the back of his throat.

He looked from side to side as he urged his limbs into action, his right foot twitching in response.

His stomach dropped. He had no idea where he was.

It wasn’t a SHIELD facility, that much was clear; it lacked the charming, slate grey walls and was far too well stocked. SHIELD didn’t have cabinets in their holding rooms – medical or not – as it was a liability, what with highly trained assassins coming and going.

He also hadn’t failed to notice the lack of the mandatory guard detail in the corner of the room.

It was also blatantly obvious that it wasn’t a public facility. No windows. No medical equipment. No scrubs. No _sound._

His limbs were coming back and he managed to move both his legs, clench his hands into fists.

It wasn’t Stark’s neither, not as far as he could tell. He’d been in Stark’s facilities and as modern as Tony was he wasn’t _that_ into white – white walls, white floors, white cabinet, white fucking everything. The only thing that stuck out was a hardly visible line down the wall to his right. A door, more than likely, one that was meant to keep him _inside._

And fuck. If he was being held like this, what had he done? He refused to think about Bruce or Tony. If he had … hurt them, he would never forgive himself and he would go ahead and turn himself over to science or SHIELD or whoever and just give the fuck up. It couldn’t happen again.

He tempered his breathing.

Assess the situation first. Analyze. React. 

It wouldn’t help to lose his shit – he could do that later, when he _wasn’t_ being held by an unknown party and when he wasn’t near anyone he could _hurt._  

Not that he was sure there was anyone around at all.

It hadn’t escaped his attention that his headspace, while aching like a son of a bitch, was remarkably empty – remarkably his own. If his mind wasn’t working so hard to keep him calm and to help him work a way _out_ of this, he might’ve stopped to enjoy it. 

Though, this wasn’t like how it had been with Phil; this emptiness was something else. It had taken a piece of him with it and he began to feel _sick_ as his mind stretched trying to grasp for something that was no longer there.

Clint groaned as his stiff legs and arms began to obey his commands with more fluidity and as soon as he was able to get his left arm up he reached over and ripped out the IV in the nook of his right arm.

A bright splash of red followed the violent movement but Clint paid it no mind as he forced his sluggish body into a sitting position, his head swimming at the movement.

His muscles tensed and bunched as he forced them to act far earlier than they wanted to and soon his legs were over the side of the cot. Any second someone could be coming to check on him, though he had a sneaking suspicion that whoever had drugged him had underestimated his metabolism.

It had something to do with his mutant physiology, something in the way he stored and utilized energy in order to power the part of his brain that controlled his ‘gift.’ Phil had known more about it. Of course he had.

He could thing about this fucking _later_ , he berated himself, pulling himself to his feet.

His knees buckled, unsurprisingly, but he managed to hold firm, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the bed.

He lurched across the room, taking in every detail he could. There wasn’t much – the room was extremely lacking and terribly sterile. It reminded him of an operating room, only a lot less quaint and that was enough to scare the fuck out of him.

He went through the cabinets, his uncoordinated movements making far more noise than he needed, and stood dumbfounded for a moment. 

Everything inside was at least thirty years old – hefty encyclopedias dated back to the nineties, gauze cartons from 1978, medical plungers he was certain were no longer in production.

It sent a chill up his spine and left him with all the motivation he needed to get. the. fuck. out.

“C’mon, c’mon –“ He muttered as he searched the rest for something, _anything_ that could act as a weapon.

Clint managed a plunger with a thick needle and decided it would do; he had done substantial damage with a lot less.

From there he moved as quickly as his body would allow.

He checked the crack in the wall, running the needle through the crack, checking for a deadbolt but it seemed that if anything was modern it was the door. The needle ran down without catching, confirming his suspicion that it was electronic and sealed by a full-length slide bolt.

He wasn’t getting out of that door. Moving on.

He looked up at the ceiling, a good ten feet above him, and towards the 2x2 foot vent cover with a frown. Contrary to popular belief he didn’t _enjoy_ climbing around in vents. They were noisy and weak and hot as fuck.

It would be tough to get up there and even tougher to get his shoulders through the space but he couldn’t see anyway out that didn’t involve him punching and needle-stabbing his way threw unknown territory.

With a grounding breath he gripped the cot and flipped it, leaning it against the wall. Within a minute the vent was open, the razor blade fan torn out and no more than five seconds after the panel hit the ground, he was up and out. 

* * *

Steve and Bruce sat in stunned silence as they waited for Tony to return.

Steve opened his mouth and promptly shut it, still unsure of just what to ask. He hadn’t been there when whatever it was had happened so he was feeling more than a little lost.  

He had been three floors down, working his way through his usual exercise routine when it had hit him, the overwhelming stab of fear and panic, dredging up from within him like a poison.

It made him near sick to his stomach, something that was nigh impossible with the super-soldier serum bonded to every cell in his body. All in one swift moment he felt _everything_ ; a faceless terror sewn to an inexorable exhaustion built from guilt and hopelessness bonded to anger and loneliness.

He could hardly process it and ghost images from the past had raced painfully through his mind; a film that played only the worst scenes.

It was like nothing he’d ever felt, before or after, and it had been gone just as swiftly as it had come, leaving him with symptoms akin to a hangover. He _never_ thought he’d feel _that_ again.

Steve hadn’t known what to do, certain he had just experienced some sort of shocking meltdown or some terrible fault in the serum, delayed but unavoidable.

It wasn’t until an alarm started going off that he even considered it might be external to himself, let alone an attack.

Things had become truly frightening when he had learned that one of his team had been the probable cause. He hadn’t known what to think when he had finally found the rest of his team in Stark’s lab, Tony and Clint unconscious and Bruce distanced from the others, fighting back the Other Guy.

When Tony had come to it was with a loud groan and the very serious exclamation, “I think something’s wrong with Barton.”

From there it was madness, the entire tower in chaos; apparently, whatever had happened, it had been very widespread and _terrifying._

Steve didn’t often feel anxious but he urged Tony to hurry – whatever this was, it couldn’t wait.

Finally, the door swung open to reveal a rather bedraggled Tony, a wad of toilet paper stuffed up one nose, a red-eyed Pepper, and a very un-happy looking Happy.

“You can sell that story to your underlings and suits and whoever else, okay, but as Head of Security, I think I should know what the hell is going on!”

The whole room cringed. The alarms had only just been deactivated and the man’s voice sounded far too loud in the silence that had followed.

“Happy, this is not the time to play Head of Security. Daddy’s got a headache.” Tony’s snark was still there but there was nothing behind it; he sounded drained and nothing in his tone suggested he was finding anything funny about their current situation.

“Play? This isn’t – play … And you hired me to do just that! As your Head of Security I’m telling you this is the perfect time for me to be doing my _job_!”

“Happy, please –“ Pepper started as she moved to the conference table, slumping into one of its chairs.

“One minute I’m scoping out that new batch of hires and the next everyone’s on the floor in pain. Myself included!” Happy’s face was red as he became more agitated and Steve imagined that happened a lot working for Tony, though in this particular circumstance the eccentric billionaire was free of blame.

“One girl quit, by the way. And some guy had a complete breakdown, was crying and everything - ”

“Not to mention the whole thing with the 55th –“ he gave Tony a hard look. Tony didn’t look up and was instead doing his best to rub the migraine from his head, “ – that floors been no-touchsies for what, thirty years and suddenly Flash Gordon’s watch-dogging the place?" 

“ _That …_ okay I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.” Tony groaned.

“Oh, I notice things. A lot of things –“

“Happy!” Tony interrupted, following Pepper’s lead and collapsing into the nearest available chair. “Listen. Something happened, okay, and you will be part of the super secret club that gets to know about it, but for now I need you to put your scary-cooperate-head-of-security-game-face on and go run some interference.”

“We need to keep this as internal as we can. We have 1600 people in this building, 85% of which are Stark employees. The other 15% are contractors who are not bound by the same contractual terms of confidentiality.”

Steve sat back, listening intently as Pepper spoke. He had wondered just what they had been doing in the past half hour; he’d felt particularly useless, sequestered to the boardroom while Tony and Pepper did all the work.

“And we don’t know how far this … reached. We need someone out there talking people down. You have the statement I drafted –“

Happy lifted up a set of papers.

“Yeah, about that –“

“Happy, please.”

Pepper sighed, her voice pleading, all but begging the justifiably freaked-out HOS to keep calm and help them bury this.

Steve was about to jump in and tell the man to do his job but it proved unnecessary. Pepper was a brilliant well respected woman; he exuded confidence and was overall remarkable.

It was hard to say no to her.

Happy seemed to deflate 

“Fine. Okay. But later you better tell me what’s going on.” Happy said, pointing at Tony before exiting the room with purpose.

Steve was trying to be patient but he was tired of feeling very much so in the dark

“Jarvis, scrub all visual and audio recordings throughout the building starting one-minute before the event.”

“Right away, sir.”

The event. Steve supposed it was better than ‘that thing Clint did or maybe didn’t do, but it seems like he was involved’.

“And get me information on wherever the Widow is. We need to talk to her, only her, so run as much interference as we can with our esteemed Director.” It sounded like an afterthought but Steve had no doubt that it wasn’t.

“I’ve checked out SHIELDs regulation and I can’t say I’m a huge fan of their _mutant_ ‘ _handling’_ procedure …” Tony added darkly and there it was – that thing everyone was talking about.

Steve knew about mutants – sure – but he’d yet to encounter one, had yet to hear anything outside of the errant news report and most of what he knew was from a large packet handed to him by Fury; even then mutants had been a small part of his re-orientation material.

Back in his days mutants had been something he’d only heard about once he had joined the Super Soldier Initiative and even then it was spoken as if it were only hearsay.

“So,” He started, not sure where to start; they had only been able to guess in the beginning, but hearing confirmation was a little startling, “it’s true then. Clint is a … mutant?” It seemed like a strange thing to say about someone, seemed unkind, somehow.

It was Bruce who answered – the man had been eerily quiet when Tony had all but pushed him inside and told him to stay put. Steve had been a little more than concerned when the man hadn’t even answered him when asked about his wellbeing.

“We ran the blood work. He runs a positive for the X-Gene.” Steve could only assume that was a solid ‘yes’.

“But when we cross-referenced it with his SHIELD medical file, he tested negative.”

“SHIELD tests for that?” Steve asked, one brow arching upwards. 

“Of course they do.” Tony answered with snort, as though the reasons were obvious. “And the fact that Clint was hiding it isn’t giving me the impression SHIELD has the warm-fuzzies for mutants, or at least his mutation. Whatever the hell it is.”

Steve nodded – he sure as heck couldn’t put a name to whatever that had been. But then he remembered something.

“But I thought most mutations were superficial, harmless …” That’s what his briefing packet had said, though the news often said differently. 

“80% of the time they’re about as remarkable as heterochromia,” Bruce started, giving everyone in the room a short glance before looking back down at the table. 

“Which is to say, not very remarkable.” Tony added for what was probably the sake of himself and Pepper, though he had the idea that Pepper knew more than the average person. 

“Ability to change hair color on the fly, or, I don’t know ... can grow their fingernails like cat ladies.” Tony elaborated and Pepper huffed, rolling her eyes – she winced immediately after the action, no doubt still nursing a pounding headache.

“10% are purely physical, stuff you’re not really benefited by – “ 

Steve didn’t even need to ask before Tony elaborated. 

 “ - guys with horns or a third eye, or something.” Steve tried to imagine it – anyone he had ever encountered who had looked like that had been on the ‘bad’ side of things. It was hard to imagine every day citizens living their day-to-day with _horns._

“Then there’s the 8%, the unlucky ones, Epsilon Mutations. They usually have debilitating mutations. Think immunodeficiencies, Ectrodactyly –“

“- people born with gills and no lungs.” The idea made Steve’s stomach churn but he was beginning to get the picture.

“And the last 2%, they’re the ones with … powers, right?”

“Exactly, Cap’. A+.”

“But it gets even more complicated with that group. You have alphas, deltas … omegas. People like Magneto –“

“The X-Men.” Steve had done _some_ research on the matter; besides, it was hard to _not_ know who they were. They were on the news nearly as often as the Avengers.

“Clint, we think, is one of those 2%. Alpha class, most likely.”

The room went silent as the news settled. Steve was rather certain they were all wondering the same thing: why hadn’t Clint told them? 

The answer most certainly had to do with trust and that left them all with the realization that Clint, their teammate, hadn’t trusted them enough. 

It felt like an incredible failure.

“So, what do we do?”

“We wait for Barton to level out, wait for him to wake up –“

“Wake up?” Pepper spoke up, one elegant brow arching upwards and Tony _flinched._

“We had to sedate him.” There was no denying the guilt in Bruce’s voice, but Steve couldn’t help but show his surprise.

“What? Why?”

“We couldn’t risk Clint hurting himself, or … others. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, yet.” Bruce didn’t sound very proud of what they’d been required to do but Steve understood it, to a point, and hoped Clint would two.

“That and whatever happened with Clint … well, the Other Guy didn’t like it so much.”

“I got it under control, Tony.” Bruce shot back, his voice filled with uncharacteristic defensiveness.

“Well, _Bruce,_ we couldn’t risk it. Barton could’ve woken up all exorcist on us and I don’t know about you, but I’ve hit my personal daily limit of nose bleeds and Vulcan-mind-melds.”

“Okay. Boys. Enough.” Pepper interrupted. It was clear that tensions were getting a bit too high.

“He started it.”

“Tony –“

“Well, where is he now?” Steve interrupted, his voice rising over their exhausted squabbling.

“About that –“

That was all Tony had been able to manage before the door, despite being locked, swung open again to reveal a regretful looking Thor.

“Shield Brothers, Lady Pepper –“ He said as though he hadn’t just knocked down a door in some great urgency.

“You’re supposed to be not here.” Tony ground out; if he was trying to be secretive by being vague, he was doing a terrible job

“Yes, that is true, but I have grave news. Our Clint Barton is missing.”

Silence.

“I believe he has taken to the ceiling paths.”

It took Steve a moment to register what the Asgardian had meant and when he finally processed it he could have sworn.

Tony beat him to it. 

 “Shit.”

* * *

Clint fumbled through the airshaft that was far too small for him, and fought the blind panic that was threatening to overtake him.

Whatever had been holding his abilities at bay before was now gone and though the world wasn’t nearly as loud as it had been before, it was filled with enough alarm and panic to have him scrambling for calm.

He was army crawling through an unknown maze, hitting weak points - making the whole thing sway – and hot spots that were enough to make him lightheaded. He went up and down, left and right, but there was still no sign of an opening. No offices or hallways or freaking janitor’s closets.

There was no fucking exit here.

He had just about decided to destroy a portion of the venting system – and it would have been easy, as fragile as they were – and take to the walls, when, finally, he could feel a draft.

He followed it, not caring so much that he was making enough noise to awake Thor or that his hands were bleeding from when he’d caught them on sharp corners, and upon reaching the large fan, started to kick.

It was moving and was made of stronger stuff than the vents themselves; he kicked and kicked and kicked until finally, it groaned and bent.

A moment later it was bent outwards, creating a space just big enough to fit through. 

He wasted no time and dropped down.

And into a room of nothing.

Odd, sure, but he couldn’t give a single fuck as the headache from before made a glorious return and began to pull at his concentration, hundreds of stranger’s emotions trying to rip him down.

Something strange and familiar brushed across his still torn to shit shields but he pushed it deep; he had to move. His adrenaline would only last him so long. 

The room was dark but he stepped forward, not caring if he ran into a wall, and reached out, hands landing on cold concrete. He felt around and, within minutes, landed on what felt like a door knob.

It turned easily and he leaped out, not caring, for the moment, what was on the other side. 

He came out into an blessedly vacant hallway but, after a moment of regaining his bearings, any relief he had felt vanished. 

In front of him was a rather spectacular view of Manhattan. It was a view he knew extremely well and had seen many times before. 

No. This couldn’t be right. He’d been _drugged_ for fucks sake.

But the view didn’t lie.

Stark Tower. He was in Stark Tower.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if Clint’s trust issues weren’t bad enough. Next up: Natasha shows up. So does Xavier. Pepper is a badass. Things get hairy. 
> 
> I know it wasn’t as action packed (at all) as it should’ve been but I’ve decided to go with shorter chapters and higher update frequency, over long chapters and who knows when updating.
> 
> Shiny?
> 
> Also. My first born for whoever can tell me how to paste into Ao3's Chapter Text without having double spacing ... please.

**Author's Note:**

> So many feels.
> 
> I promise there will be an incredible amount of badass!Clint in the future; this was just setting the stage. There's a lot more to Clint's mutation than what we've seen, trust me ;-)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
